


In Three Months Time

by DerangedLychan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal Sex, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24393706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DerangedLychan/pseuds/DerangedLychan
Summary: The same heavy beats with little-to-no lyrics.The same heavy scent of alcohol and cigarettes.The same unhappy husbands and single losers watching him.But something was off.
Relationships: Canada/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this YEARS ago and thought I lost it when I purged my ffn account. Found in a buried folder and uploading for safekeeping.  
> -  
> Huge warnings for content, yes in addition to the tags:  
> Non/dubcon  
> Kidnapping  
> Violence  
> Slur usage  
> Death  
> Generally some shady shit, if you want pure soft this isnt the one for you

The same heavy beats with little-to-no lyrics.

The same heavy scent of alcohol and cigarettes.

The same unhappy husbands and single losers watching him.

But something was off.

Even as he preformed the same routine he'd been doing for a year now, a feeling of unease skittered down Matthew Williams' spine, leaving goose flesh in its wake, even despite the heat in the club. He continued his rhythmic movements, hooking one leg around the metal pole and leaning back. While winking at one patron, he scanned the crowd expertly. Nothing out of the ordinary. He turned around, stretching a leg before him and leaning over it, still searching discreetly. His eyes widened for a millisecond as he found the source of his nervousness.

How in the name of all that was holy had he missed him the first time?

The man was huge, not fat, but tall as sin with powerfully broad shoulders. A long jacket covered most of him, and he wore a faded pink scarf, looped several times around his neck and over his shoulders, but it didn't hide his obvious power. He stood almost a head taller than everyone around him. His gaze rose a bit, eerily bright violet eyes met his gaze and Matthew flinched, even as he continued the ritual movements. Those eyes seemed to bore into him, stripping him of whatever cover he may have and expose him. Which, really, at this point shouldn't be anything new. Matthew had been dancing at this club during the nights for months now. A sickeningly sweet smile, and then after Matthew had spun once more around the pole, he was gone. Matthew's goosebumps were the only testimony to him having ever been there in the first place.

.::~x~::.

The end of his shift came after what seemed like an eternity. He typically helped close down, but all he wanted to do was go straight home. The encounter with the violet-eyed man had unnerved him, however brief it was. The more rational part of him said that he was probably there the whole time, just another patron, but most of him insisted that he get home.

He walked into his dressing room and locked the door behind himself, something he typically didn't bother with since nobody but staff was allowed in that part of the building and he knew them all. He told himself mentally that it was stupid, but trifled no further with the lock.

"Cautious so suddenly, Matvey?" A thickly accented voice asked in a light tone. The accent didn't bother him, nor did the observation about his usual lack of security. What made him pale with fright, was the origin of the voice: Directly behind him.

He whipped around, eyes wide. Only to have a wet cloth pressed tightly over his nose and mouth and to be bodily forced into the door behind him. The last thing he managed to take note of before slipping into blackness were a pair of bright violet irises leering down at him and a soft smile.

.::~x~::.

The first thing he noticed was the TV playing the news. He opened his eyes, blinking in confusion, and for one moment, he thought that the past memory had been a nightmare that had woken him up. His fleeting hopes crashed around him as he attempted to move his arms. Chains rattled in response to his cry of despair.

Looking around, he located the TV, in front of him and just to the left. It was the news woman, Elizaveta, and she wore an uncharacteristically serious expression as she was framed by the simple gray walls of what seemed to be naught but your average apartment.

"... is dangerous and presumed to be armed. Local law officials are now enforcing a strict curfew of ten pm until he is found and detained."

A picture of the escaped criminal appeared in a little box to her left reading Ivan Braginski and Matthew neglected to listen to the rest of what she was saying. He had platinum blond hair and pale skin, a small, sweet smile quirked the corners of his lips upwards. Matthew's heart leapt into his throat. Violet eyes glinted from the mugshot.

The TV blinked off.

"So annoying they are, always repeating the same thing, да?" an airy voice sounded from his left side. Matthew's head whipped in that direction of it's own accord and he gaped like a landed fish at Ivan Braginski, wanted criminal and prison escapee.

"Holy shit." A million things had zinged through his mind upon seeing the other. He could have pleaded for his life, begged to be let free. He could threaten the other with the police, lie and say people were looking for him. He could have said a multitude of things, but all that exit his dry mouth was 'holy shit'. Brilliant. Ivan blinked. Then giggled childishly.

"Such a foul mouth." His smile changed into a leer for a split second. "We'll need to be rid of that habit, да?" Matthew cringed and the Russian's smile dropped it's menace. "So cute when you're scared, just as I thought." He seated himself on the corner of the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. "When I saw you at your school, I thought you were pretty, so I followed you to work. You are very graceful, but I wanted to see you cry and beg, not wink." Matthew swallowed thickly. What was this guy's issue?

"I don't- Why would you even- Maybe if I- You're name is-" He inhaled deeply. "Why me?"

"Because you are pretty, and I want you." Ivan responded as though it were obvious. Matthew stare hard at him for a moment, then gave a smile that was more of a grimace.

"You're crazy." He accused, voice weaker than he liked. Ivan blinked at him for a moment, then laughed. Matthew decided instantly that he didn't like the sound of the Russian's laugh. He opened his mouth once more, but all that escaped was a choked noise of surprise as a gloved hand pressed tightly into his throat. Ivan was hovering above him. He still wore a smile, but his eyes glittered dangerously.

"You need to learn not to be so bold, Matvey." He hissed as Matthew thrashed below him, struggling for air. A desperate whimper, then he released the other, reveling in the way he pant and turned his head away from the larger male as though it would help. After a brief moment of confrontation, Ivan spoke once more. “I think I’ll take you.” It was a simple musing, airily said, as though the other was simply choosing the flavor of ice cream he wanted. Matthew’s heart stopped for a moment.

“What?” He asked, mouth dry, eyes wide and fixated on the wall before him. He couldn't bring himself to turn his head and look at the other. No matter, though, because Ivan’s hand found his chin, an undeniable force, pulling his head to face the other. That sickeningly sweet smile still rested on his lips. Matthew’s stomach rolled.

“I think I’ll take you.” Spoken a bit more slowly, and Ivan’s hand fell to his waist, fingertips trailing along the tight leather clothing he hadn’t gotten the chance to change out of.

“No.” He gasped, eyes wide. Suddenly, the gravity of his situation came crashing down on him like a bucket of cold water. This man was going to rape him, and probably kill him. His mind swirled. Things like this didn’t happen. Murder and rape were things from movies and books. From the news and dark rumors. Things like murder and rape didn’t happen to people like him. It just didn’t happen. “Y-you can’t.” His voice cracked, panic finally seeping into him, ice cold and demanding.

“Oh but I can, Matvey.” He corrected, smiling still. “And I’m going to.” He leaned over the other, kissing him on the cheek. “But not just yet.” A giggle as Matthew stare up at him blankly, mouth open a bit, half-formed pleas caught in his throat. He was just messing with him? How could he joke around about something like that? What was he thinking?

“Wh-what the fuck is your problem?!” He demanded, tears of fear and relief pricking his eyes. “You can’t just- I actually thought you were going to- Why would you kid around about something like that?” Ivan’s expression darkened and Matthew shut his mouth. “I-I’m sorry.” He blurted, glancing nervously down to Ivan’s hands. One lifted and the Canadian flinched instinctively. A gloved hand stroked his cheek gently.

“You are learning well, да?”

.::~x~::.

“It’s been two months.” His voice was soft to avoid waking the sleeping Russian beside him. Two months since he’d been kidnapped and imprisoned. Two months since he’d started playing nursemaid to the volatile criminal. He’d been let loose only day-or-two after his capture under threat of death if he tried to escape. Since then, Ivan hadn’t made good of his threat. The most he’d done is kiss him and had the other sleep in the same bed.

He honestly didn’t understand why the older male kept him about other than to clean the house. Ivan bought the food and apparently paid the rent as well, for he complained once that his landlady was a jerk(only in a far less polite manner). He had no idea where Ivan was coming up with the money, or the comfort he seemed to have around Matthew. At first, fear had kept Matthew from trying to escape, then, a strange sense of contentment. Ivan was lax with guarding him, other than not letting him leave. He’d leave in the morning and not return until the afternoon, sometimes not until nighttime. Matthew had even found the door unlocked once. Ivan couldn’t possibly trust him, so what would warrant such blatant sloppiness? Complacency? Or was Ivan trying to coax the other into doing something bold so he could track him back down? He really didn’t know. 

He looked over to the sleeping male in question, who currently had his arms wrapped around Matthew’s slim waist in a grip he’d given up trying to escape. His shockingly pale blond hair was splayed over his brow and the soft white pillow below. Violet eyes moved beneath the pale lids they hid behind as he dreamt. He knew the other was brutally strong, and equally ready to shed blood if provoked, but at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to genuinely dislike the other as he had when they’d first met. 

Ivan was oddly kind to him, greeting him and biding him farewell with a smile and a kiss to the forehead, even when Matthew would glare death at him if he neared. He noticed quickly that Ivan was childish, somehow, despite his size and record. Simple things pleased him, but at the same time, simple things could befoul his mood as well. He was also a deeply physical individual, brushing Matthew’s hand every time he accepted or handed something to the other, or simply clinging to him whilst he was in the midst of something and demanding that he stop what he was doing immediately and lay with him.

He absently brushed the stray locks of hair from the murderer’s face, his hand lingering on the oddly cold flesh and falling to his cheek, only his fingertips sustaining contact with the cool skin. He truly was an intriguing individual, Ivan was.

“Matvey?” His voice was slightly hoarse with sleep, and it was only then that he realized the larger male’s violet eyes had opened to meet his own cornflower blue ones. He jerked his hand back as thought he’d been bitten, blood rushing to heat his cheeks. He gaped like a landed fish. He didn’t understand his actions, how could he explain himself to Ivan?

“I-I didn’t mean to wake you.” He said lamely, voice weak. His gaze fell away from the face of his companion, fixing on the plain grey wall opposite them. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth, fidgeting.

“Matvey.” No questioning tone this time, the sleep was nearly gone from his voice. Matthew felt him shift, the bed creaking slightly as his bulk moved, and the Canadian looked up to the murderer, blinking as their gazes met. Something glimmered behind Ivan’s violet hues that Matthew hadn’t seen there before. It wasn’t lust nor rage, not the bitter cold that glow in his irises when he was particularly angry. He couldn’t place the emotion that shone in his oddly colored eyes. He licked his lips, suddenly nervous, and tried to get words to slip past his suddenly tight throat.

Then he was against Ivan, and the kiss made his head spin. It was deep and passionate, Ivan’s lips pressing against his in a way that they hadn’t before. The wasn’t one of the little kisses that he stole on occasion, it was entirely different, and it stole his breath. Ivan pressed closer to him, allowing no space to separate them as he pulled his lips away just enough to breathe, lips still lingering faintly on the smaller’s. Mathew gasped lightly against Ivan’s lips, dazed.

“Ivan?” He didn’t know what he was asking the other as his name fell, breathless, from his tingling lips. He didn’t know what he wanted more at that moment; An answer to his undecided question, or for Ivan to kiss him again. He was moving, closing the distance between them, before his conscious mind had time to register the fact. Ivan’s eyes widened in surprise for a moment before he applied a gentle pressure, arms tightening ever-so-slightly around his waist. They pulled apart again, the older of the two resting his forehead against Matthew’s.

“да, Matvey?” He breathed, voice oddly soft. Matthew’s heart jumped slightly and he wet his lips, Ivan’s gaze flickering once to register the movement. He wasn’t entirely certain what he wanted to say, or ask, be it one or the other. Something of a smile touched his lips and he laughed quietly.

“I don’t know.” He admitted, and Ivan’s smile mirrored his own. Another gentle kiss. Then another. Their kisses were rapidly losing innocence, becoming deep and passionate, Ivan’s hands loosing their vice on his waist to roam his body, dipping teasingly below shirt hem and waistline. Matthew’s hand moved as well, tugging impatiently on his shirt hem and running slim fingers over muscled flesh. Ivan shifted, allowing Matthew to pull the shirt off of him, then taking it from his hand and letting it fall to the floor. Matthew’s gaze wandered over the Russian. Scars littered his body. Some were faint with time, others newer and bright against his pale flesh. He blinked. Though they varied, from brutal, jagged bits of scar tissue, to slim, small cuts, they made his heart constrict in a way that hindered his breathing. There were simply so many.

“Matvey?” He’d sat up, and one hand lingered on a scar, he realized. He hadn’t even been aware of moving at all. He tore his gaze from Ivan’s chest, and met his eyes. Uncertainty, hesitance. Emotions that didn’t at all belong in the deep violet eyes of the strong man before him. His hand slid up, around his neck, under the beloved scarf, where he could feel more scars yet, and he shifted closer, kissing away his inhibitions. Cool hands found their way under his shirt again, pushing the material over his head, even as he slid the scarf from his neck.

“Yes, Ivan?” His voice was breathless and soft against the male’s lips. A smile curled the corners of the Russian’s mouth upwards, and he pulled the other closer.

“I don’t know.” The criminal replied, and Matthew kissed him, sliding into his lap. Nothing but hot, feathery touches and open mouthed kisses as they slowly divested eachother of clothing. When the last article touched the floor, joining the crumpled heap that had grown beside them, Matthew was on his back again, Ivan hovering above him, hands roaming, mouth sealed around one pert nipple. The Canadian arched, gasping softly and running his hands through Ivan’s hair again and again, whispering his name. Ivan bit down softly, and Matthew keened, letting his head fall to the side as pleasure swam through him.

If someone were to tell him two months ago that he’d be laying beneath a wanted criminal, moaning in pleasure, he’d take it as a joke. If they’d told him that he would be sitting up slightly, shifting the other to kiss him deeply, he would have laughed in their face. He thought back to that Matthew, and didn’t miss him. That was two months ago, a lifetime ago. He had been a different person then, an ignorant person. His hand fluttered down to brush pale fingertips over hard flesh, reveling in the quiet moan he earned from the action. He grew more bold, wrapping his hand around Ivan rather than ghosting his fingers over it. Ivan let loose a shuddering breath, kissing his cheek once, twice, again, then moving to kiss his neck.

“Suck.” The male commanded against his neck, two cool fingers pressing against the seam in Matthew’s kiss-bruised lips. He opened his mouth, accepting the intruding digits, as his hand began moving furtively. He wasn’t entirely certain why he was so nervous, his actions hesitant and questioning. He wasn’t exactly new at this, one didn’t go through twenty-two years of life, ten of them knowing exactly which gender you fancied, without encounters like this. It was just the fact that he was laying with Ivan. Not some kid from high school or college no more certain about his sexuality than most others, but Ivan, a decisive and absolutely certain man. It made his heart flutter against his chest like a frightened canary, and his cornflower-blue eyes flicker to the other’s face to make sure he wasn’t messing anything up or making any mistakes. 

Something in the back of his mind told him that the entire situation was a mistake.

He promptly told that something where to shove that particular thought.

After deeming the digits properly lubricated, Ivan removed them from his mouth, dropping the hand lower on his body as his lips and tongue occupied the barely vacated cavern, filling his mouth with the faint taste of vodka once more. A finger pressed into him, hardly noticed through the sensations of Ivan kissing him, and throbbing in his palm. The second brought with it a small prickle of pain, causing him to pull away and shift a bit.

“Shh, любимый. It’s alright.” Ivan’s voice soothed, breath feathering over the section of neck he’d diverted his attention to. For some reason Matthew’s mind chose that instant to take note of the fact that his accent had grown thicker with lust. He almost giggled at the notion, but found that the action would be unfitting, and chose not to. The fingers moved after he relaxed, twisting and stretching, a sensation he swore he’d never grow used to. Pain swam sluggishly through his lower region, making itself known, but not demanding attention. Besides, it was soon washed away as Ivan curled his fingers, pressing firmly against a denser bundle of nerves, and lighting his nerve endings afire with pleasure.

“Ivan!” He gasped, when had air come in such short supply? “Th-ere. Right there.” He squirmed, now pushing down against the intrusion, rather that flinching away. A smile curled against his neck. A third finger was added as he pressed against the Canadian’s prostate, and the boy took no notice, lost as he was in pleasure. Ivan removed the fingers, and Matthew moaned in displeasure, whining a bit. Before he could protest beyond wordless vocalizations, Ivan’s lips covered his own, and he felt a pressure against his twitching entrance.

“Relax, Matvey.” The murderer cooed against his tingling lips, pushing in slowly. The only thing that kept him from jolting away from the painful intrusion was Ivan’s hands on his hips, holding him in place. He chew his own bottom lip. Damn, it hurt, and Ivan certainly was bigger than anyone else he’d slept with. The aforementioned male started murmuring comfortingly in his ear in Russian. Even unable to understand what was being said, Matthew relaxed slightly, taking comfort in his tone. After Ivan had sheathed himself fully, he halted, allowing the other time to adjust. He lay back, looking up at the man’s face.

He wore an expression of focus, and Matthew knew right away that that was because he wasn’t used to being so gentle, and Matthew found that at that moment; gentle was the last thing he wanted. Ivan could be being so gentle because he felt that Matthew wouldn’t be able to take it if he wasn’t. It could be due to pity, or even a lack of interest. No, gentle could be read too far into. He wanted to know that Ivan knew him. He wanted to know that Ivan wanted him. Raw couldn’t be read into. He wanted raw.

“Ivan,” He reached up, touching his cheek. “Don’t hold back.” he said, watching Ivan’s eyes widen slightly in disbelief and his mouth open, presumably in protest. He shook his head and sat up, kissing him. “I’m not porcelain, Ivan.” he assured. “I can take anyth-ing you can dish ou-t.” He lay back, watching the look of confusion and hesitance change slowly into understanding, and then into a far more predatory expression. His hips pulled back, then snapped forward, brutally fast, making him gasp in shock, back arching. Pain seared the lower half of his body, shooting up his spine and causing tears to burn at his indigo eyes, now wide and unfocused. Maybe, just maybe, he'd bitten off more than he could chew. 

“Matvey.” He purred, leaning close to nibble his earlobe. It only took a few of those brutal thrusts for the broader male to find, and exploit Matthew’s prostate, quickly reducing him to a moaning mess below him. Matthew was vividly aware of everything. He could feel himself tearing around the hard girth of the other, he knew that what made the movement phenomenally easier was blood, the way his teeth would puncture the pale flesh of Matthew’s neck on occasion, he was entirely sure his hips would bruise under the crushing pressure of Ivan’s palms. At the same time, though, he reveled in the spear of pleasure that shook through him each time Ivan hit his sensitive prostate, the slight tingle left every time Ivan moved his lips across his skin, the way their closely pressed bodies slid against one another, and the way the pain mingled with pleasure, enhancing it further and rendering him unable to speak coherently.

Blunt nails dug into Ivan’s broad shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped wounds. Ivan shuddered, growling against the little Canadian’s jugular and continuing the violent pace, filing and emptying and filling again, driving Matthew crazy with pleasure and need. Suddenly, his hips were down one hand, and the heel of one calloused palm ran along the underside of his throbbing member, pressing it against his stomach as it dragged, agonizingly slow, along his length. One of Matthews own hands dropped to his weeping member, only to have it swatted away by Ivan’s larger hand. It fell to the sheets beside him, gripping. Ivan continued his slow, so agonizingly slow, ministrations without pause beyond that it took to move Matthew's hand.

"Ivan," it was the only thing he could say, the only thing he could even think, because it was the only thing that existed. All that mattered or was was Ivan, wrapped securely around him, above him, inside him. Kissing, stroking, thrusting, and bringing him closer and closer to the release he craved. The murderer's name tumbled from his lips again, a desperate mantra punctuated by cries of pleasure. Heat, pain and pleasure mingled in his body, all eventually slipping into his abdomen, crowding and pressing and tightening. Release was so close. He moved to hold onto Ivan again, kissing him savagely, and tasting his own blood on the Russian's tongue. 

Before he was aware, his vision vanished in a brilliant white, and his body was tensing, arching, convulsing around Ivan's throbbing manhood, and he was coming, feeling the warm dampness of his own spend on his chest and stomach. He was sure he was screaming, but it was distant in the fog of his mind. Ivan came soon after, grunting and biting down harshly on Matthew's collar bone, a bite that was sure to leave a prominent scar on the delicate flesh. Matthew shivered slightly, a quiet keen escaping his abused lips as the other filled him even more, excess come leaking from where they were joined to dampen the sheets further.

"Я люблю тебя..." Matthew didn't need to speak Russian to be able to identify the soaring feeling his heart gave at those words. He didn't need to be alert as he returned them in sleep-slurred words, smiling as bright as the sun. Ivan pulled out, laying beside the spent Canadian and holding him close. Matthew shifted closer, and fell into a welcome oblivion.

.::~x~::.

The next morning Matthew woke, dressed and cleaned, and alone. His heart clenched for a moment before he saw a note on the pillow Ivan had vacated. It was an apology for not waking him to say goodbye and a promise to return before nightfall. His spirits soared.

The day fell into the routine he'd grown so used to as he wait for Ivan. He quit early, choosing to lay down on account of the pain moving caused. He had just started to dose when he heard the front door slam open. He bolted upright, ignoring the searing pain he action brought in favor of worry as Ivan walked in, brows furrowed. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong when Ivan crashed their lips together. He pulled away only just enough to speak, holding he startled Canadian close.

"You are free." his words made Matthew's stomach roll.

"What?"

"I am letting you go free if you wish." he stepped back, holding a finger to Matthew's lips as he tried to interrupt. "My location has been discovered, and I must leave at once." his gaze softened. "But before I do, I am going to be honest with you, да?" A pause. "I did not take you that night because I simply wanted you. I lied. I took you because you were the most kind, beautiful, warm, wonderful person I'd ever seen, and still are. 'What if he was kind only to me?' I thought. 'If his smiles were mine alone?' I wanted that kindness more than anything, so I brought you here and chained you to me. I am sorry, but I could not, can not, help it: I love you." he punctuated the last words with another kiss. Upon pulling away, though, his expression was one of sadness. "Which is why I will not ask you to come with me." he finished.

Matthew blinked, head swimming.

"Ivan..."

.::~x~::.

The slim blond male glanced once more over his shoulder, licking his lips nervously. He had to be careful.

One false move and everything he'd gained since becoming free would be snatched away from under him.

They hadn't caught Ivan Braginski yet, which mean that his every step had to be precise and calculated. 

There was no room for error.

Slipping the key into his apartment, he unlocked the door and ducked inside, closing an reliving it behind him swiftly. He pocketed he key, relief flooding through him.

A strong pair of arms wrapped around his midsection, trapping him against a powerful chest.

"Were you followed?" a thickly accented voice asked behind him. He turned around slowly in he Russian's arms, how own looping around the strong neck of the murderer.

Violet eyes warmed with adoration as he smiled, kissing his lover.

"Of course not."


	2. Careful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra warning, this is the rough one

“Ivan...”

Back arched, pale and beautiful. Figure rimmed in the faint yellow glow of a small lamp across the room. Another sweet moan, music to his ears.

“I love you.”

Violet eyes raked over the smooth expanse of flesh presented, imprinting it into his memory. That lovely, delicate creature that had given Ivan everything but his life, which Ivan refuse to ask for, because he knew it would be provided once sought out. Matthew wouldn't refuse him.

“да , Matvey...” He murmur against his neck. The Russian sat back, looking down at him. Beautiful but fragile, what he couldn't truly touch, but wanted to more than life itself. If he touch, he would break, that is how it was. Too brittle, too soft. Ivan's large, calloused hands were fit only for hurting, and he did not, for once, want to hurt the male before him.

Not to say that Ivan Braginski didn't like to hurt people. He most certainly did. To break them and paint them in blood. To watch light fade from their eyes, it was truly ecstasy. He enjoyed hurting people, but not Matthew. Never his Matthew.

It was a rare event for anyone to willingly be with Ivan, sexually or otherwise, and Matthew had chosen to. He'd dropped his life on a moment's notice, and run off with him. Him. Ivan Braginski, the single most wanted man in both Russia and Canada, and well known in other countries. He'd accepted his advances and lain with him, was laying with him currently. He was so kind and lovely, not for Ivan's hands to wander, lest he break that which he care about the most.

His hands were damn-near always on Matthew's hips, and nowhere else when they made love. His grip was so tight, he knew he left dark and angry bruises there, but better bruise than break. It was all he could do not to hurt his beloved.

With a quiet cry, Matthew came, insides undulating around him, bringing him over the edge as well. He came with a grunt, leaning over Matthew to kiss his neck. Matthew collapse below him, panting heavily.

Ivan pull out and lay beside the Canadian, pulling him close. He press a kiss to the blond's temple, his cheek, nose, and finally his lips. He got a giggle in response and Matthew loop his arms around the murderer's neck, nuzzling him.

“I love you, Matvey.”

“I love you too, Ivan.” He sigh. The words were impossible. And yet Matthew say them again and again and Ivan couldn't bring himself to think they were falsities. There was no way his beloved Matthew could lie. With his wide, honest eyes and smooth, quiet voice. Matthew didn't lie. He just accomplished the impossible.

It didn't take long for the worn Canadian to fall asleep, clinging to him. Ivan stroke his golden hair from his face, staring down at him with all the love one possessed by ill will could. He up and left his family and life for the murderer, though the Russian couldn't fathom why. He stole him away from everything he knew and kept him locked up in an apartment. He scared and abused him during their first meeting, then hid him away from the outside world. Yet he stay willingly, and ran with him.

People were looking for him, Ivan knew. He'd seen a few minutes of the news dedicated to talking of his Matthew's disappearance, and of his brother's-- a cop-- sadness at the loss. He'd seen the brother too, so similar yet nothing alike. He was loud and brash where his Matthew was quiet and gentle. Matthew spoke highly of his brother though, only teasingly referencing his loud mannerisms, and blaming it on his being raised in America. The brother, Alfred, his name was, must have done something right to earn such fond words and kind eyes.

But he had been careless with his brother. He had allow him to preform in a manner not fitting before strangers. This was his punishment. _Ivan_ , was his punishment. He'd stolen the only family of the American's that still live and kept him in the company of a murderer. Had taken what was most dear to him because he was careless with it. A calloused hand ran down his cheek. Alfred was a fool, letting something so precious out of his sight for even one moment.

Ivan sigh. Matthew miss his brother, though, despite all of that. He told Ivan as much as they lay, speaking of everything and nothing as was their habit. It wasn't that he wanted to leave, he'd said, but that he wish he could visit his brother sometime without it being dangerous to the Russian. He chuckle quietly. Nothing was dangerous to Ivan.

That was worrisome, though. Matthew fret over not hurting Ivan. Every day the blond spent with the taller male hurt him, and put him in danger of being even more severely hurt. Ivan was hardly a master of his desires. He missed his family, his friends, his life, and yet he steadfastly refuse to leave Ivan's side. He sacrifice so much to be with someone undeserving of such affections. Constantly moving about, no home to speak of, a suitcase and the clothes on his back. What a life.

Ivan was not what was best for Matthew, and he knew it.

What was best for Matthew was his mourning brother, his college classes, his old life. All the things he'd thrown away are the things that he needed most. Not Ivan. Ivan was a danger to him and everybody around him. Matthew could never be safe so long as Ivan was around. His gaze flicker past the sleeping male to the white teddy-bear that he'd gotten the other on a whim. Its beady eyes met his violet gaze and held no fear. He wanted Matthew safe.

He slid from the sleeping angel's arms, tucking the blankets close around his sparse form to make sure he didn't get cold. The Russian walk over to the bear sitting on a chair, lifting it into his hands and looking it over.

“Kuma.” It's name, he remember Matthew coming up with it on the spot after Ivan hand it to him. He'd said it meant 'bear' in some language. He cross the room with the stuffed thing in one hand, stopping in front of his lightly colored scarf and picking it up. He loop the beloved thing around the little bear's neck a good number of times before setting it back on the chair.

It was cold, he note lightly, finally taking the time to focus on his naked form. Canadian winters could be just as harsh as Russian ones. He set about dressing himself methodically. First underwear, then trousers. Shirt next, followed by gloves. After the gloves he put on his large jacket, the tan fabric a familiar comfort. Socks, shoes, then scarf. He stop, though, blinking at the empty space before his hand. Right, he would have to skip out on the scarf that day. He wouldn't need it, though. He was used to the cold.

Lacing his boots, he stood, eyes darting over the room to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything of terrible importance. He had all he needed for the time being. He stooped to press a kiss to the forehead of his sleeping love, then turn on his heel and walk towards the door, lifting a well-use faucet pipe as he exit.

He had a lot to do before the sun rose and announce the coming of dawn. 

~::X::~

The air was frigid and bit his flesh as he leave the sanctity of their hotel. The wind pulled lazily at his bones, and the snow covered him in soft ice, making his scowl bitterly. How he hated the cold. He struck a fast pace through the snow, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He had to be quick if he wanted to finish before dawn. He completely discard his habit of avoiding main roads as he trudge through the winter weather. There was no time for it.

Not many people were out at the ungodly hour the Russian was about at. If they were, they huddle miserably in their jackets, doing everything but running to get to their destination and out of the cold. He only encountered four of these such people, and they gave him a wide berth. Understandably, considering the blood-chilling scowl he wore.

He was in a hurry, they'd best stay out of his path.

The store wasn't far away, but a few blocks. He smile upon reaching it, stopping for a moment. It was rather shabby, just a simple convenience store, with garbage out front and a painfully dull neon light proclaiming it open. It was clean at least, when he step inside, and smell faintly of the greasy hotdogs and fried chicken sold at one end.

The only other person was the cashier. Wonderful. Ivan step in, allowing the door to close slowly behind him, smile in place.

The man didn't even have time to greet the Russian before he collapse with a dull thud, his head caved in. Ivan absently run the bloodied metal of the faucet pipe over his lips as he study his handiwork. He hadn't made much of a mess, just a bit of blood and brain matter on the floor directly below the unfortunate fellow's head. If he wanted Alfred's attention, he'd have to do better.

Ivan walk around the counter to the corpse, kneeling and setting his beloved pipe down on the ground beside himself. He rolled his sleeves back to his elbows and stripped off his gloves. Once he tucked them into his pocket, he drew a switchblade from his boot, grinning.

~::X::~

Matthew didn't question him when he came in covered in blood. There was no lingering glance on the fouled metal of Ivan's pipe. He didn't ask where it was from, or recoil when Ivan touch him, getting his lovely cheek bloody. He lean into his touch, nuzzling his hand and smiling up at him softly.

“You're not hurt, are you?” Ivan's once dead heart shudder with love for the beautiful creature he had under his palm.

“I love you.” He lean forward, connecting their lips harshly. “I'm sorry.” Matthew cast him a questioning gaze as he was pushed back onto the bed. Ivan wasn't careful this time. He couldn't be. Not this time. Not when so much rested on him blocking out that habit of being careful with the other. His hands ran over the soft body, lips and teeth following.

Hard hands, hard lips. There was nothing else he could do. All stops taken out, all emotions other than want stifled to the best of his ability. No more blocks. No more careful. He tore Matthew's shirt unceremoniously from his body, buttons popping off and falling about haphazardly. Pants followed, then glasses, crushed under his palm, little shards biting into his hands, blood mingling. Matthew looked worried now, eyes shining up at the other in confusion.

Ivan offer no response as he caught the other and pull him close, kissing him hard, drawing blood. His tongue found it's way into the Canadian's mouth, dominating and tasting. His hands roam, gripping, clawing, hurting, and Matthew made little noises of confusion and pain, writhing under him.

“Ivan?” a quiet gasp as the Russian directed the attentions of his mouth to the soft flesh of his neck, biting hard and leaving marks and blood. His frail hands rest on the elder's shoulders,but didn't push him away.

“I love you.” Was all he got in response, accompanied by the sound of a zipper. Ivan position himself and look into the eyes of his beloved. Fear now, as there should be, but worry also. That needed to go. He couldn't worry. Couldn't love. It was vital that he didn't. He push in, and Matthew scream, eyes closing and hands gripping.

Ivan grab his wrists and pin them above his head, feeling the bones grate painfully. He grip one thigh with his free hand and press it towards Matthew's arching body. He pull back, and thrust, earning another cry of pain. A brutal pace was set up immediately, and Ivan could smell the blood that made his movements inside the other easier.

“I love you.” He breathe against Matthew's neck, biting once more. Matthew cry, tears making little trails in the blood that his bitten lip and Ivan's stained hand had gotten on his face. He gasp and whimper, little shouts of pain accentuating each thrust as he was abused so thoroughly.

He began to struggle, but it was weak. He pull at his wrists, arching his back and trying to squirm away from the hard thrusts. Away from the hard hands and hard lips. Away from Ivan. Good.

“P-please I-van!” He was begging, quiet voice raised and hysterical in pain and confusion. “Ivan it _hurts_! Ivan! Iva-an _please_!” Ivan didn't stop. Couldn't stop. He bit in response, drawing more blood, hurting more, gripping harder.

“I love you.” It became a breathless mantra, falling from his blood-coated lips easily, even as he raped that which was dearest to him. “I love you.” He was close. Matthew cry still, shaking voice ringing in his ears, begging to stop, to slow down, asking why. Ivan couldn't answer beyond the same three words, spoken in varying languages. Spoken only for Matthew.

He came with a grunt, burying himself entirely inside of the other and biting down hard on his shoulder. The others were likely to scar, this one would absolutely do so. Matthew scream as the heated seed covered the tears inside him, burning and hurting. He was sobbing now, but not struggling. Ivan sat back and look down at him.

His wrists were bruising already, his face wet with blood and tears. Ivan kiss those tears away, pulling out. A bruise on his thigh, too, shaped like Ivan's hand. A dark pink mixture of blood and Ivan's spend leak from his torn entrance, staining the already ruined sheets. Another testament to his crimes.

“I love you.” He told that pleading look in the eyes he loved so dearly. He should take them out and keep them for himself for when the other was gone. But no, Matthew need them to go on in life. He need them for college and career, the things Ivan couldn't give him. So he would leave him with what he needed to gain them.

The Russian scooted to sit against the headboard and pull the quietly sobbing Canadian into his lap, stroking his hair and murmuring his love as he whimper in pain. He press a kiss to his hair, and to his bleeding lips.

Now there was naught to do but wait.


	3. Saved

“Was it him?”

“No doubt about it. This is just his style.”

“Poor bastard.”

“Yeah, he probably didn't even see it coming.”

“Hey! What's up? Was it him? He's here?” The two turn to look at the American who jogged up, out of breath. The elder of the two nod, taking a drag from his cigarette and looking back to the maimed body.

“Yeah, it's Ivan's handiwork. He ain't around, though, I'm having my guys get the security film for last night.” Alfred slow as he took in the scene, stomach rolling in disgust at the sight.

The body could hardly be recognized as human. Ivan had gotten playful this time around, eviscerating the employee and looping his own innards around his neck as well as the cash register and some of the racks of merchandise. An arm was gone. His eyelids had been cut off, but the eyes themselves undamaged. The deceased's stare made him cringe and look away, sickened. This sick fuck had his brother.

“Hey, Jones.” Alfred turn around. “He left you something.” the man jerk a thumb in the direction of the far wall as he started out the door past the American. “Looks like you got his attention.”

In all honesty, Alfred didn't wan to look. He didn't even want to know what this sicko had to say to him, because he didn't care. Except that he did. He care about Matthew, who had been gone for months already. He strode to the far end of the small store, rounding a rack of junk food to get a better view.

His heart drop into his stomach.

> 'Come get your brother, Alfred.'

Written in blood across the wall, the message burn into his memory, making his blood run cold. He'd found the missing arm, it had been used as a paintbrush. Alfred turn, and stumble from the store, stomach clenching around his heart. The cold air of the Canadian winter hit him like a brick wall as he exit, but didn't stop him. He made sure to get away from the crime scene, hurrying out to the side of the road.

Once there, he promptly bent over and emptied the contents of his stomach. The Canadian officers offer him sympathetic looks as he puked, holding his stomach in one hand, his knee in the other. The bastard was fucking with him. He was dangling Matthew in front of him.

Standing straight, he wiped his mouth. He had to admit, the McDonald’s tasted better going down than it did coming up. He breathed through his mouth in hopes the frigid air would quell the foul taste that lingered there.

“You alright, Jones?” The older police officer asked, hand falling on his shoulder. He turn to the other and offer a strained smile. “Y'know, I think he's still alive.” Alfred's expression hardened instantly.

“I know he is.” He answer swiftly, narrowly avoiding cutting the man off. He jolted, smiling weakly. “Sorry, I just- I would know if he were dead, 'kay? That's not what I'm worried about.” The man nod, dropping his hand.

“You should come watch the security tape with me, I'm pretty sure you need to see it just as much as we do. His is your brother, after all.” Alfred nod vigorously. There was no way in hell they could get him not to watch it.

“Yeah, you guys got it?” A nod. “Then s'time to get going, I wanna see what way that fucker went.”

~::X::~

Alfred finished off his second cup of coffee, the bitter taste welcome. This was his third time watching the twenty-minute-long video, and he was alone. All of the other cops had left him to the gruesome thing, stomachs uneasy. It wasn't that he wanted to see that poor bastard dismembered, it was the end of the video he was trying to figure out.

Ivan dropped the arm, look up at the camera and held up three fingers, smiling. Alfred had jot down possible meanings in a little, doodle-riddled notebook in front of him. Hours, days, weeks, months, blocks, streets, years, strikes. He didn't know, and it was driving him insane.

“What the fuck does he mean?” Alfred snarled, slamming his laptop closed with more force than necessary under any circumstance. He run his hands through his hair, pulling once before dropping them listlessly to his sides. After checking to see that he hadn't broken the poor computer, he stood and stretched. He'd go ask the people who lived around there if they'd seen anything.

He slipped his handgun into the holster and snatched up his notebook, tucking it into his pocket and taking his coffee mug down to the hotel lobby with him, setting it on the room service cart as he pass. The clinking of silverware on plates and the sound of aimless chatter fill the lobby. It pissed him off. How could they be happy and stuff their stupid faces while Matthew was in danger?

He sighed as he push the door open to go outside. It wasn't their fault, he was just upset that he couldn't find his brother. It had already hit seven months, and this was the first real lead they had on his location, it was maddening. Most of the other law enforcement tried to hide their sad expressions from him. They thought they were looking for a body. He knew better. He contemplate the parking lot, then decide against it. A walk would do him some good.

He stuff his hands in his pockets to hide them from the cold, starting at a brisk pace towards the store's neighborhood.

Seven months ago he'd started this wild goose chase across Canada in no particular pattern. The day Matthew vanished, he'd known something was wrong.

~:: X ::~

The digital clock on his nightstand read that it was three in the morning. His hammering heart told him it was noon and he'd just run a marathon. A cold sweat had broken out over his flesh, and he sat up, uncomfortably sticky. Arthur grumble something in his sleep and roll over beside him, the usual complaining a comfort to the American despite the time, rather than an annoyance.

He slipped out of bed, stopping once to press a kiss to the exposed shoulder as he went to the bathroom. After maneuvering around the many Scientific American and National Geographic scattered haphazardly about his room, he enter the bathroom.

A nervous wreck stare tiredly at him from the silver surface of the mirror. Alfred shook his head, running a hand through his damp hair. He run the water, making sure it was frigid before cupping his hands under it and dousing his face. As the icy water touch his neck and chest, he swore vehemently under his breath.

“S'cold!” he whispered harshly, making sure to keep his voice low. Well, he was awake now. Stretching, he turned to lift himself onto the counter. What had given him that feeling? He could feel it still, that rotten weight in the bottom of his gut, making him shift nervously. There wasn't a lot that made him scared. Right now, though, Alfred was terrified.

He shook his head, mentally berating himself for being so scared of nothing. There was nothing to be afraid of. He hopped off the counter, absently kicking aside a towel laying on the floor. Arthur was going to have a fit when he saw the state most of Alfred's house was in. He couldn't help that he was too busy to clean most of the time. He walked back into his room, snatching the remote from the floor and dropping unceremoniously onto the bed. The Brit stir, but didn't wake.

He flick on the TV and turn it down, changing it to the news. Nothing was on, considering the time, and he roll over, listening to the news he'd already watched earlier that day. A wreck that killed five in Germany, three American tourists and two German citizens.

He lay like that, listening to the pleasant voice of the news woman, Elizaveta. She was a friend of Arthur's, in fact. It seemed like the blink of an eye before the news' theme song started up again, and the Hungarian news woman's voice started in actuality. She sounded frazzled, and her voice hitch on occasion. Alfred sat up, brows furrowed. She looked like she'd been crying.

“Matthew Williams, a young Canadian college student was reported missing this evening by a colleague.” Alfred's heart drop into his stomach, and that knot of terror trembled, pulsed sickeningly. “The case is suspected to be linked with the escaped prisoner: Ivan Braginski. No official reports made, though.” Alfred stood slowly, and sprinted to the bathroom, all pretense of being quiet gone. 

His brother was missing.

~::X::~

Alfred stop on the street the store was on. Ivan had gone down the north road. He'd work his way up that way, door-to-door. The old fashioned way. He dug in his pocket to make sure he had a pen as he walk towards the door of the first building. It was a kind of dumpy place, an apartment obviously not meant for those who had ample amounts of money.

He push his way inside and started down the hall. First things first, he stop by the manager's place to tell him that he would be asking the residents questions. There was no problem with him on the matter.

~::X::~

Six buildings and two hours later, he was getting fed up. He'd been shooed out of a few buildings, the manager not willing to let him ask the people questions without a warrant. He was on the third block, and getting frustrated. The first building on this block, would be the last. The sun was standing high in the sky, telling him of his spent time, but not offering any warmth.

He pushed into the hotel, and shivered. The ever-present knot in his stomach shudder as well, making his heart start a bit. It was a nice place, not overly expensive or fancy, but not a dump, either. Homey, and small vaguely of perfume and chemicals. He marched up to the bored-looking young woman at the counter, and pull his badge from his pocket.

“Alfred F. Jones,” he stated, stuffing it back into his pocket as the woman blinked incoherently. “I'm going to be asking the residents at the hotel a few questions.” it wasn't a question this time. Alfred wasn't walking away from this hotel until he knew what was giving him that odd feeling.

“A-alright, sir.” She hurried to respond. “You go right ahead. D-do you need anything?”

“No.” he turned sharply on his heel and walked off, leaving the slightly ruffled girl sitting at the desk. The hotel was pleasantly heated, a blessed change from the harsh outside, and softly colored in warm pastels. He stop at room one and knock heavily.

“What do you want?” Came a shouted reply.

“Police, open up.” He called back, keeping his voice from a shout by willpower alone. He didn't want to deal with short-tempered people right when he was ready to snap. A young woman open the door, dressed in night clothes. She yawned.

“You need something, officer?” She ask. “I was trying to sleep.” Alfred flushed guiltily, scratching the back of his neck. That explained her terse reply pretty handily.

“You seen or heard anythin' weird, ma'am?” he asked, authoritative tone lessening some. She thought for a moment.

“No, not really. I sleep all day and work night shift, though, so I suppose it's no surprise.” she shrugged. “Can I go back to sleep, sir?” Alfred nodded, uttering a quick apology, which she took graciously and closed the door with a smile.

He moved to the next door, but before he could knock, the door was opened, and a middle-aged man blinked up at him. Alfred stood awkwardly for a moment, then lowered his hand. He had a receding hairline and a prominent gut, and was wearing a suit that didn't flatter him.

“Well, what do you want, kid?” He demanded, obviously irked at the American's presence.

“I'm here to ask if you've seen or heard anything strange lately, sir?” His voice was stern, despite the man's scowl.

“Yeah, the couple next door are too fucking loud and kept me from getting to sleep the day before a meeting.” he said, scowl deepening. Alfred blinked, flushing.

“Too loud?” he repeated, shifting a bit with discomfort.

“Yeah, couple of fags decided to have good old butt sex next door the night before an important meeting. I don't know who this 'Ivan' is, be he's getting some.” Alfred's eyes widened to an almost painful extent. He gaped at the man, the knot tightening and making him sick to his stomach. “Can I go now? I'm going to be late.” Alfred could only nod dumbly and step aside, allowing him to close his door and hurry off, grumbling.

The couple next door. Ivan. He swallow thickly. It could just be a coincidence. There was no way to know for sure who it was. Ivan wasn't an uncommon name. Some other dude could be in there with his boyfriend. ' _But it is Ivan._ ' The knot argued. ' _It is and you know it and your brother is in there._ '

His heart hammered against his rib cage as he near the door of room three. Room three. An image of a grinning madman gleamed in his mind's eye, holding up three fingers. **Three**. His stomach dropped into his feet, making them heavier. He took out his side arm and knock on the door.

“Police, sir, open the door!” he said, and in the back of his mind something piped up, telling him he probably should have called for backup of some sort or another. Or let someone know where he was. Something, anything. Just in case, just in case. No, he didn't need to, he would be fine. The good guy always won. He'd get Matthew home and safe. His brother would be okay.

“ да! Come in, Alfred! The door is open!” He stared hard at the door for a moment before slowly testing it, which his instincts said was a horrible idea. It could be a trap. It wasn't, though. No rigged explosives, no trigger-tied-to-the-doorknob trick. The door opened easily, and he step into the room, gun raised. Only to nearly drop the thing.

Ivan was sitting on the bed, leaning back against the headboard and smiling at him. In his arms, was Matthew, curled against his chest. His baby brother looked atrocious. His glasses were nowhere to be found, and his clothes were likewise missing. What Alfred could see cause his heart to constrict painfully. His brother. His baby brother, was covered in bite marks, and in bruises shaped like hands. Ivan smirked, stroking his golden hair. Seven months. He'd been with this monster for seven months. 

“You fucker!” Alfred snarled, voice dangerously low. Rage was bubbling up his throat, suffocating him. He'd hurt Matthew. Seven months. Without knowing, Alfred raise the forgotten gun, taking careful aim at that smiling face he hated so deeply. “I should just fuckin' shoot you. I'd be doin' the world a favor.” Ivan chuckled, seemingly unbothered by both the threat and the loaded firearm pointed at him.

“And break the laws you've taken upon yourself to guard, Alfred?” The sound of that Russian accent saying his name made him sick. “Then go ahead, traumatize your brother further. I'm sure the gun would wake him up, where our conversation has not.”

“Fuck you.” as much as Alfred hate to admit it, even to himself, Ivan was right. He wanted the other to feel justice to her fullest extent. Just shooting him wouldn't do that, wouldn't bring him justice, it would just make Alfred as bad a man as him. “Drop my fuckin' brother you sicko. You’re under arrest.” The words were practiced to perfection, he had been waiting to say them for too long.

“да, Alfred.” He hum quietly, tilting Matthew's face to look at him. “Matvey.” He cooed. “Matvey, wake up, your brother is here.” Matthew's eyes open slowly, and Alfred's heart seize up in his chest. Ivan press a kiss to his bruised and bloodied lips, causing Alfred to start forward a step unconsciously. 

“Watch it.” He bit out and Ivan looked up to him innocently.

“What?” Matthew's voice was hoarse and scratched. Ivan gently lifted him from his lap, sitting him upright. Matthew wince at the movement.

“Your brother is here to get you, dorogoy.” He said, standing. Matthew look at Alfred blearily.

“Al?” The American felt like he could break into tears of joy if he wasn't determined to die before the Russian would get any sign of weakness from him. He nod.

“Yeah, Mattie.” a weak grin. “Your hero is here.” Matthew made a little noise, turning towards Ivan.

“Ivan? What-” he was quieted as the Russian stooped to kiss him softly.

“Hush. Your brother will take better care of you this time, да?” He look pointedly to Alfred, who finished closing the distance this time. When Ivan stood, he was whipped harshly across the mouth with the barrel of his gun. He staggered, glowering at Alfred, blood welling from his split lip. He held his gun to the Russian's face, smirking. He might not be able to just shoot him, but he could have that at least. The fucker deserved that much.

“You were resisting arrest.” he explained, and Ivan remain still as he took the larger man by the back of his neck and force him onto his stomach, making sure his knee dug painfully into his back. He could feel the power of his tensed arms as he pulled them behind his back to snap the cuffs over his wrists. It was obviously taking all of his self-control not to fight back. Ivan didn't do anything to defend himself, though.

“Enjoying yourself?” he spat, glaring over his shoulder at the man. Alfred scowled in return, raising his gun once more. A feather-light grip on his wrist stop his hand.

“D-don't hurt him anymore, Al.” Matthew's scratchy voice plead. The man in question looked up to him, brows furrowing in disbelief. There were tears in his slightly unfocused eyes.

“Whaddya mean, Mattie? This fuckhead kidnapped you!” Matthew simply shook his head, refusing to release his wrist.

“The little creature probably suffers from Stockholm.” Ivan piped up from below him helpfully. Matthew's grip tightened as Alfred's arm tensed.

“Al, don't, please.” He beg, shaking his head again, voice watery. Gritting his teeth, he lower his arm. He look down at the smugly grinning Russian, and had to stand and look away, lest he hit the other again. He wanted to tear that smile off of his stupid communist face. He sat next to his brother on the bed, pulling the battered younger into his arms. He wouldn't, though. It would upset Matthew and the last thing he wanted to do right now was anything that could upset him.

“God, Mattie, I'm so sorry.” He loosen his grip as the Canadian made a little noise of pain. “I couldn't get here in time, shit, Matt, I'm sorry.” Matthew simply lay against his older brother, gaze focused on Ivan, who didn't move from his position on the floor.

Alfred dug his cell phone out of his pocket and flipped it open.


	4. Hope

She was talking to him again, in that steady drone of hers, but he couldn't hear her. He didn't even _want_ to hear her. All she was doing was telling him that he was mentally unstable and the man he loved was a worthless cutthroat. Telling him that Ivan was a murderer and was going to die. She was telling him to forget Ivan. 

Not so ruthlessly, of course, psychiatrists weren't ruthless with their words very often. Being a psychiatrist required a certain tact. It was a hard job, and Matthew respected her for taking it, but he didn't want to be near her. He didn't want to be reminded that Ivan was back in prison, by his own devices, no less, and was sitting on death row, waiting to be given the lethal injection.

“Matthew. Matthew, are you with me? Matthew, focus.” He blinked slowly out of his moody revere, her soft voice registering in his mind finally. She gave him an exasperated look. “Matthew, I can't help you if you won't listen to me, dear.” Matthew frowned at her. They said he was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, as Ivan had told Al that night, but he wasn't. He knew what Stockholm Syndrome was, why it was so easy for them to believe. They also said he was manic depressive. At least that much was true enough. He just couldn't bring himself to be happy. When he was with his brother was the closest he could get, but that was all, besides the fits of anger he was prone to lately.

“I'm sorry.” he said in a quiet monotone. She sighed heavily.

“Matthew, we've hardly made any progress lately, because you won't listen.” She reached out and lay her hand over the Canadian's. Matthew look down at it blankly. “It's because his execution is coming up, isn't it?” He flinched this time. “Matthew, I know that it's hard to forget what happened, but you need to try and heal. It's been weeks, we can make progress if you want to try with me.”

“Only four.” Four already? It seem like only last night, he was staring in confusion and fear as Alfred arrest Ivan, and he was suddenly being pulled out of the room and away from his prone form. He'd fought tooth and nail against the officers, trying to plead Ivan's case, to convince them to let him go. He knew what Ivan had done, he knew why they were arresting him. He wasn't stupid. He also knew that aside from the poor cashier Ivan had used to get himself arrested, the Russian hadn't hurt or killed anybody in the four months that Matthew had been with him of his own volition. They hadn't listened, though, and he'd been whisked away, unable to even see him as they took him away. Only days later, he'd been stuck with his psychiatrist, a gentle, patient soul who had her hands full.

“Sweetie, four is too long to try and keep up these emotions. It's been a month since you've seen him last. It's alright to admit what he did was wrong.” She took his hand in hers, running her dark thumb over the back of his hand. “He won't be able to get you, there's no way for him to escape again. They even moved his execution closer to make sure. You're safe, I promise.”

“He wouldn't hurt me.” Matthew insisted, looking up at her from her hand.

“Then why were you in that state when your brother found you, Matthew?” He shook his head, snatching his hand from her grip.

“I-I don't know. That was the only time he'd actually hurt me. I'm... Pretty sure he did it to make sure Al got him then and there, or something like that.” Her smile was sad, which only irritated him. Why was it that nobody would believe Ivan wasn't a mindless animal. “I'm being honest. At first, he scared me a lot, but then he stopped trying to intimidate me completely.” Her incredulous look only fueled the tirade he was starting. “He stopped locking the door, wasn't even _around_ for most of the day, sometimes. I never even _tried_ to escape. I didn't want to, because he _wasn't_ abusing me!” Why couldn't she understand that? He told her the same thing almost every day: Ivan didn't hurt him but that last night. He was kind to Matthew, in spite of his violent nature. Ivan wasn't a beast. She opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off. “Ivan isn't an animal! He treated me way better than everybody else in my life that wasn't blood related! I love him! You think I'd love somebody that was beating me on a daily basis?” He stop himself, blinking and panting. He stared at her in shock, his own outburst startling him.

“It's alright, Matthew, sit down, now, okay?” he obeyed, seating himself and looking down to his hands that he lay in his lap. He hadn't even realized he'd stood up.

“I-I'm sorry.” He muttered, ashamed of his outburst.

“It's alright, Matthew, that's what we're working to help, remember? I'm trying to help you get rid of those fits. I'm not upset with you.” He nodded weakly, not turning his gaze from his hands.

“C-can I go home, please?” She sighed quietly.

“Alright, Matthew, you can go home for the week. I'll see you next week, alright?” He nodded, standing.

“I'm sorry again.” She simply wave off his apology with a smile. He turned on his heel and quit the building. He hadn't drove since the incident, preferring to take public transport. Being around so many people was rather soothing, he found, even though he never ventured to speak with any of them. He wouldn't be able to connect with them anyway. They wouldn't understand.

He stepped up onto the bus and made his way to a seat by the window, folding his hands in his lap and looking out at the city as it pass by. It was the twentieth. In five days, Ivan's death sentence would take effect, and he would be given the lethal injection. They had been so determined to kill him that they had let Alfred get him transferred to the United States simply because they still allowed the death sentence, and Matthew had dual citizenship. Ivan was going to die in five days. His chest constricted again, and he bit his bottom lip, closing his eyes for a moment. After a few seconds, he open his eyes again. It hurt to even think about. And he was supposed to be there when Ivan was executed.

The walk from the bus stop to the hotel he was staying in was a short one, and he soon found himself standing before the building, hesitating. He wasn't quite ready to retire to a hot cup of tea and a worn book. Reading and watching the news was all he seemed to do lately. He turn and start down the sidewalk. A walk wouldn't hurt, and the fresh air could do him some good.

The December air was almost miserably cold, burning at his lungs and face. He didn't pay it any mind, though, because he had grown up primarily in Canada, and the winters there were much harsher than here. It made him homesick. He smiled softly, hands buried in his pockets, despite the gloves that kept his fingers warm. Ivan had loved his country, even though he hated the bitter cold that both of their homelands held every winter. His gaze grew distant. They often talked of trivial things like home.

~:: X ::~

“What's it like in Moscow, Ivan?” he'd asked abruptly, looking up to the man sitting beside him. The Russian blinked down at him in surprise.

“Why do you ask, dorogoy?” Matthew shrugged.

“You know about Canada well enough, I want to know about where you come from.” Ivan smiled at him.

“Moscow is wonderfully exciting, not very much like the towns we have been staying in.” A distant expression of reminiscence touched his features. “There are motorcycle races in the streets almost every night, dances. You were either a millionaire or an urchin, though. Can you guess which I was?” Matthew chuckled, leaning against his side. He hummed softly, the vibrations in his chest making the Canadian giggle.

“Sounds like New York.” Ivan made a face.

“Nothing like the American city. I have been there. It is too cozy in New York. It is artificial, fake, staged.” He shrugged, waving a hand. “There's something plastic about it, dorogoy, it is hard to explain.” He kissed the crown of Matthew's hair. “I will take you there, so you can see for yourself. It is very wonderful.”

“I'd like that.”

~:: X ::~

“Watch it!” Matthew stumbled, jolted from his thoughts by a shoulder and an angry reprimand.

“I'm sorry.” He mumbled, lowering his head and speeding off. He needed to stay in the present, or he'd get hurt. He looked around. He didn't quite know where he was on first glance, but it didn't matter. He wasn't tired yet, and he'd run into something he recognized sooner or later. His hand instinctively rose to pull the faded pink scarf a little closer around his neck.

He wandered aimlessly, crossing roads on a whim and getting more and more lost. He was probably just getting further from the hotel. Alfred was supposed to stop by with Arthur today. If he wasn't there when they arrived, his brother would have an aneurysm. He didn't recognize much of anything in this area, though.

“'Scuse me?” He turn to the heavily accented voice. A man with unruly red hair and piercing green eyes smile broadly down at him. “Aye, lad, you. I was wonderin' if ya knew where I could find 'The Curtain Inn'?” Matthew blinked, that was a Scottish brogue. In Montana.

“Ah, no, actually, I'm trying to find it myself.” The Scotsman laugh raucously, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it.

“S'at so?” Matthew nod. “Ya don't perchance know a little British bloke named Arthur, do ya? Crabbier than all sin, 'e is, and eyebrows that look alive.”

“Yes, actually, He's dating my brother.”

“Ah, so ya _are_ Matthew! I though' so!” The Canadian's brows furrowed in confusion. “Ya don' know me, an' that's understandable,” he held his hand out. “I'm Alasdair.” He grin around his cigarette. “Wee Arthur's oldest brother. SAS.” Matthew cocked his head, taking the outstretched hand gingerly.

“SAS?” The older man nodded, but his expression changed slightly. He looked a little more downcast.

“Aye, I was tellin' ya why I was here. The SAS want a look at this Braginski fella before 'e hits the table.” He shrugged. “S'cause the man slip through London 'erself on 'is way here.” Matthew felt something of a smile touch his lips. Ivan had told him about that, actually. It had been one part his own doing and two parts blind luck and good timing.

“I know.” He blinked. He hadn't meant to say that at all. He was really spending too much time around his brother. Saying things without thinking was the American's department, not his own. Alasdair raised an eyebrow at the response, studying him.

“S'at so?” He muse. “N' how, might I ask, did ya come across that information?” Matthew shifted under the suddenly heavy gaze. When being stare down by those green eyes, it was easy to tell he and Arthur were related. They both had a strong presence. 

“Well, I'm sure you know my situation.” The Scot nodded. “He told me during the few months I was there.” A light shrug, he was trying to look indifferent to his prodding.

“He jus', up an' told ya?” Scot's demeanor changed entirely, his brogue coming back full force now that he wasn't tense. Matthew felt himself relax as well.

“Of course.”

“Ya sound awful sure of that, lad.” Alasdair's tone was light, but his expression unreadable. Matthew frown in return. He was going to tell him it was a lie, too, it seemed.

“That's because I am.” Matthew said. “I take it Arthur hasn't told you the whole story yet?” The Scot cocked his head.

“The whole story?” Alasdair repeated curiously. “I figure I know it well enough.”

“Did Arthur tell you that I love him?” Matthew met his gaze, suddenly filled with vitriol. “And, before you mention it, I am most certainly _not_ a victim of Stockholm Syndrome.” The Scot stare him down for a moment more, before grinning.

“Nah, I don't wager ya are. Ya seem too sure of yourself fer that.” Matthew's brows furrow as Alasdair's expression darkened a bit again and he lean forward, glancing to the side once. “And I have somethin' to tell ya'.” he breathed. “Yer ears only.” Matthew eye him skeptically.

“W-well, then we should find the hotel.” He muttered, turning a bit. Alasdair grinned, clapped him on the back and turned to stop a passerby and repeat his initial question.

~:: X ::~

Alfred and Arthur were already at the hotel by the time the pair arrived, and Alfred was furious. As soon as Matthew entered arms reach he was taken by the shoulders and thoroughly scolded, as Alasdair began to explain to his younger sibling why he was there. The two Europeans spent the majority of the time of the visit bickering, with Matthew and Alfred trying to simply keep it from dissolving into a fist fight. With varying degrees of success.

A few hours passed before Arthur and Alfred bid the two farewell and left for their own hotel. Alasdair not passing up the chance for one last foul insult at his younger sibling before they left and Alfred forced to drag Arthur away from the laughing Scotsman before a brawl broke out in the lobby. 

Once back in Matthew's room, the Canadian rounded on Alasdair.

“You said you had something to say to me.” he demanded, and the Scot's expression sobered.

“Aye, lad. I do. Somethin' er very intimately involved in too.” Matthew felt a tentative excitement bubble up in his chest, not good nor bad, just a faint anxiousness.

“Then tell me.” he said, voice quieting.

“I want ta get Ivan outta that slammer, Matt.” The Canadian's heart skipped a beat, and his mouth fell open.

“What?” He had to have heard wrong. There was no way this stranger was trying to help him. To help Ivan. Much less someone in the SAS. It just didn't make any sense.

“Ya heard me, boy. I ain't jerkin' yer chain.” His tone was stern, and those green eyes bore into him again. Matthew sat down on the bed, staring at him with wide, fearfully hopeful eyes. Much like a rabbit offered food by a strange hand. He wanted to believe this man. He really, truly did. He wanted to be able to hope for Ivan's freedom, but logic was getting in the way. Logic and his own realistic point of view. This was an impossible situation.

“Why?” he asked, voice barely audible. Alasdair smiled sadly, seating himself next to the shell shocked boy. He pulled a stack of letters out of his jacket's inner pocket and drop them in his lap. After that a picture of Ivan as a child sitting on a merry-go-round, a young Alasdair beside him. They were both smiling, though the Scot's smile was much wider where Ivan's was shy and tentative.

“Me an' Ivan go way back. 'is family summered nearby an' da always played cards with his old man.” He said as Matthew set the picture aside and lifted the letters. He removed the rubber band holding them together and lifted the first one. It was dated a two months ago, from John to Allen. “John was Ivan's codename, mine was Allen. My mail gets scanned on occasion, so we had to be careful. We sent emails to each other, too. He's not an animal, an' he doesn't deserve to go like one.”

Matthew read through the letter, not taking in the words, or seeing what may have been said about him, but to see Ivan's handwriting. That bold, but a bit sloppy handwriting, with the periods nearly on top of the letter before and the apostrophes too long. His chest tightened and grew light at the same time.

He hadn't cried since the night Ivan was taken. He had steadfastly refused to cry, even as hope dwindled. Crying was bringing a finality that he didn't want to face. If he cried, that was actual, physical proof that he believed Ivan was gone. If he didn't cry, despair wouldn't win just yet. He could still say that he believed Ivan would make it.

Tears slid down his cheeks and choking sobs wracked his frame, even as he smiled. This man was going to help him. He was going to save Ivan. Matthew turned and threw his arms around Scot's neck, weeping joyfully into his collar. Scot blinked, and blushed, unsure of what to do with the sobbing male. He coughed and awkwardly pat the Canadian's back, looking everywhere but the man weeping into his collar.

“There, there, s'alright, no need to cry.” he said after a moment, voice unsure. Matthew pulled away, wiping the tears from his eyes and smiling brilliantly.

“Thank you.” he choked, sniffling.

“So ye believe me?” He asked.

“Yeah, I do. Thank you so much. I don't know how I can pay you back, but I will. I promise, I just...” he paused, choking back tears again. “Thank you.” the Scot shook his head, smiling weakly and waving his hand in a dismissive gesture.

“There's no need for that, lad.” he assure. “Ivan's my friend, and I wanna help 'im.” Matthew chew his bottom lip, nodding. It was too good to be true. This was what he'd prayed for every night since they were separated. He was going to get Ivan back.

“How?” He asked, doubt touching his features for only a moment. Alasdair smiled.

“Yer seein' a counselor, aye?” he asked. Matthew nodded. “She's one o' them governmet ones too?” another nod, and realization touched his features. “I'm SAS as well. We'll get you in there.” Matthew frown.

“She won't authorize me getting anywhere near Ivan, though.” Matthew countered. Alasdair chuckled.

“We just need the papers sayin' so.” he responded. Matthew cocked his head. 

“She won't sign them.”

“Yes. She will.”


	5. Steps Taken

The wind was harsh and unforgiving as they stood before the professional-looking building. Two figures stood outside the building, calming themselves before they entered. The smaller of the two shifted nervously. Glancing to the taller.

“Are we really going to do this?” Matthew asked, worry creasing his features. They'd only talked about what they were going to do just last night, and it made him nervous. The Scotsman seemed to be confident in his abilities, though, and that was a help to his nerves.

“Aye, lad.” came the short response. A large hand clapped over his shoulder, giving a comforting squeeze, and he walked past him, into the building and out of the biting cold of the middle of winter. Matthew hesitate a moment more before stepping in behind him.

Alasdair didn't unwrap himself from the various layers of clothing he'd dressed in, scarf and earmuffs included, both to keep out the chill, and conceal his weapon. He looked rather ridiculous, with only his nose and eyes showing out of the mass of clothes.

The air was pleasantly heated, and the receptionist looked up at him with a vague interest, more concerned with the doodle-covered sheet on her desk. Matthew gave her a weak smile, walking up and pulling his hood down.

“H-hello, Briget.” he said, Alasdair stepping up behind him. The young woman's attention was piqued at the new face, and she gave Matthew a pointed look. “I know I was just here yesterday, but is my psychiatrist in?” She drew her eyes back to the blond.

“Yeah, she ain't got anybody in right now, either.” she said. “Why do you need her?” she sat up straighter, eyeing him and the newcomer suspiciously. Matthew felt himself shrink away from her gaze.

“I needed to talk to her, rather urgently.” he said, shocked at the lack of a nervous stutter in his voice. How easily the lies he'd always tried to avoid came to him when he needed them. “This is my uncle,” he motioned to the silent Scot, smiling weakly. “I need her to meet him before he leaves for his flight to Toronto.” She cast an accusing glance at the male, raising a brow at his clothes.

“S'bloody cold.” he chuckled. “I'm not used to this, I'm freezing my arse off.” she laughed, grinning.

“Alright, go on up.” she said, waving them by and going back to her paper. She cast the bundled-up Scotsman one last glance as they left, giggling finally at his attire. Matthew smile faintly as well as they neared the elevator. He pressed the button to call it to their floor and glanced up at Alasdair. He winked, smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“It'll be fine.” he assured, and Matthew believed him, returning the smile with a small one of his own. He was still nervous, but knew they would succeed. They had to. This was only step one.

With a little ding, the elevator doors opened, and a man brushed past them, bumping briefly into Alasdair and grumbling an apology before continuing on his way. He had a ridiculous, gravity-defying head of hair that stood on end all over the right side of his head and was easily as large as the Scot he'd run into. Alasdair snorted a small laugh, looking at the tall man's retreating back.

“Asshole's lucky we're in a counseling office.” he said, walking into the elevator with Matthew. The Canadian smiled faintly, patting his arm. He pressed the button for the third floor and waiting. He was never very fond of elevators. When he was a child he'd oftentimes get sick on them. The feeling of rising and lowering so rapidly made his stomach roll. He wasn't good with flying, either.

The space was a bit stuffy and the music droning in the background gave Matthew something to focus on other than his growing nervousness. True, his psychiatrist was ignorant and too quick to dismiss Ivan as an animal. That didn't mean she was a bad person, though. She was genuinely trying to help him, even if he didn't need it and it was only her job. She didn't deserve this.

The little ding jolted him out of his daze, and he step out into the hall, Alasdair behind him. His pace was normal, despite his growing trepidation as they neared the familiar door. He honestly didn't want to do this to the woman, but couldn't find an alternative to help Ivan. Alasdair was his only option. He hesitated a moment before opening the door.

“Matthew,” she sounded surprised as the Canadian came in, shadowed by the large Scot, who was still bundled up to his ears in excess clothing. “We just saw each other yesterday, dear.” she looked past him as Alasdair closed the door, acting as though he was still chilled. “And who is this?”

“I know I was just here yesterday, I'm sorry.” he apologized quickly, for more than she was currently aware. He smiled weakly. “He's why I'm here, actually.” Matthew let out a little nervous giggle. It was strained and too tight, making him sound sick. He flushed In embarrassment. His nerves were getting out of hand, he needed to calm down.

“He is?”

“I am.” Alasdair step passed Matthew and stood before the desk. “As you know, Ivan Braginski will be executed on December twenty fifth. That's in four days.” His accent was completely gone, Matthew noted in shock. He might as well be American for all the woman would know. She frowned, eyeing him cautiously. “Don't you think that this would better benefit Matthew if he saw Ivan in a secure location before going to his execution?”

“What?” she blinked, sitting back some. “We've been working to wean him of his dependence on Braginski.” Matthew fidgeted. “Seeing him may ruin the progress we've made.” The Scot didn't waver.

“But don't you think that watching him die being the only time he sees him after he's arrested would be just as potentially damaging?” he countered easily. She frowned at him.

“Sir, I am a professional, hired by the government to look after Matthew's mental wellbeing. I appreciate that you care for him, but I think I know how to do my job.” She crossed her arms. “Now if you'll ju-” she was cut off as Alasdair's phone gave a shrill blare of little rings, startling them all, and nearly stopping Matthew's heart. The psychiatrist looked absolutely scandalized as he pulled it from his pocket, checking the caller ID. “There aren't sup-” 

Alasdair whipped the handgun out of his jacket and had the muzzle mere inches from her forehead in one movement. Her mouth clicked shut. He glanced up at her.

“Get the papers out and don't say a fucking word.” he ordered, flicking the phone open and putting it to his ear. Matthew's stomach rolled. This wasn't part of the plan, really. He was just going to threaten her job, not her life. The gun was a last resort. Who was on the phone? Matthew step back, listening to the hall outside the door nervously. If anyone came now, they were done for. Ivan was done for. “Hello? Yes, I'm in Montana.”

His psychiatrist looked at him in shock and fear, brows furrowed and eyes wide. Matthew weakly gestured to the filing cabinets behind her. She turned and opened one of the drawers. Matthew looked to the preoccupied Scotsman.

“Yes.” he cast Matthew an apologetic glance. “No, I'll be heading to the prison tomorrow afternoon when the security is highest. Wouldn't want him getting away.” he nod. “Yes, I will. Alright. I'll keep you posted. Goodbye, take care.” he flick the phone shut and tuck it into his pocket. By now she had the papers out and was filling out the required information to allow him to visit someone incarcerated. Her hands were shaking faintly.

“I'm very sorry about this, miss, but I couldn't have you talking out when my boss was on the line, could I? That would have ended badly for us both.” she simply nodded, signing the paper, and holding it out to him with trembling fingers. He shook his head sadly. “You need to call off the rest of your appointments for the rest of today and tomorrow.” she paled. “I won't shoot you if you cooperate. You'll be free tomorrow afternoon if you listen.” she nodded weakly, picking up the phone.

“Hello? Briget? Yes, I need to cancel my appointments until the day after tomorrow.” Her voice was even, the same voice she used when speaking to Matthew about Ivan. Her counselor voice. He felt a little spark of anger dance down his spine. At least that skill was useful to him now. “I'm feeling really crummy, Brige, and I'm going to lunch with Matthew.” she gave a weak laugh. “No, you know my policies on professionalism. Alright Briget, I'll be down in a moment.” she hung up and looked to Alasdair.

“To lunch then.” he said with a sardonic smile, motioning towards the door with his gun. She stood, and walked towards it, eyes frightened. They stopped and allow her to gather her coat and scarf, Alasdair quickly checking that and her purse for any weapons of any kind, then they left.

Matthew went first, making sure she didn't try and flee, like the Scotsman had told him. Alasdair fell into place behind her. “And remember, miss, one wrong move and I'll spray your brains over poor Matthew's jacket.” A weak nod in response.

They crowded into the elevator, and Matthew could feel her shaking against his shoulder as they wait for it to hit ground floor. He glanced at Alasdair, and the man was completely calm, only his eyes showing through the scarf and hat. He wished he could be that indifferent. He wasn't military trained though, nor was he particularly unkind by nature. He liked to think of himself as a caring individual.

A soft ding announced their destination and they filed out as the doors open. This was where it was most important that his counselor behave according to Alasdair's wishes. The final stretch to the car, then they'd be clear until the next day. When they would go get Ivan. They exit the hallway into the lobby, and Matthew's stomach rolled. He could feel himself trembling as the woman behind him was. He knew for a fact that there was a button under Briget's desk that would dial 911 if pressed. All his psychiatrist had to do was say something to her, and it could very well be game over.

“Hello, Briget.” he smiled as they passed.

“I'll see you after tomorrow, okay, Brige?” the woman waved at her, and they passed out of the building into the frigid air outside. In her state, she almost slipped on the frosty covering of the road. Alasdair caught her by the arm.

“There, there, we're almost to the car.” he eased, patting her arm. She nodded mutely, and marched on behind Matthew. He could feel himself relax more and more as they near the nondescript rental, his frayed nerves loosing their bite.

They were almost there when she inhaled deeply, and made to scream. Alasdair's hand clamped over her mouth with a bruising force, and he pulled her back against him, walking her to the car with a scowl. Matthew glance around frantically, praying that nobody saw them. There were few people in the parking lot, and none looking their way.

“We have to hurry.” he hissed low, panic threatening. Why did she have to do that? He open the door and Alasdair climbed in, dragging her in behind him. Matthew hurriedly climbed into the passengers seat, starting the car. She struggled against Alasdair in the seat behind him as he buckled and started the car. He heard a little click, and the shuffling stopped.

“Do you think I'm joking?” he heard Alasdair snarl, pulling out of the parking space and starting off, doing everything in his power not to speed or look suspicious. “I _will_ fucking kill you. You want me to prove it? I'll shoot you in the arm to prove I'm serious. Want me to?” Matthew glanced in the rear view mirror, panicked.

She shook her head to the best of her ability, whimpering. Alasdair's hat was crooked, but none of his hair was showing, thank god. She was crying now as he ground the muzzle into the side of her head. Her hands gripped his wrist and his hand. She was shaking her head quickly, the movement nothing but little nervous jerks of her neck.

“Then shut the fuck up and don't pull that shit again.” he growled, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and attaching one to her wrist, the other to his own. “One more stunt like that, and you aren't going to see Briget after tomorrow.” she nodded again, sobbing now.

“Hey,” Matthew said quietly, looking at her in the rear view again. “Just calm down. We really don't want to hurt you. I want you to be able to go to work after tomorrow, alright? We just need your help really fast.” She gave him a disbelieving look, brows furrowing.

“Why?” she gasped, voice cracking. “What did I do? I was just trying to help you.” Matthew smiled sadly.

“I didn't need that kind of help, I'm sorry.” he wet his lips. He wanted to comfort her. She looked so scared... And he was pretty certain that Alasdair meant his threats. As mad as he'd gotten at her, he didn't want her this upset. He looked back to the Scot to see if he could continue. He shook his head, and Matthew killed the words at his lips. Alasdair had a point. The more she knew, the less they could trust her. She shook her head slowly, crying still and looking at him as though he'd grown a second head, but wisely stay quiet. The large man beside her was in no mood to play games.

He focused entirely on driving to the hotel, the surrounding buildings sliding past outside the window as he near his destination. This was another tricky part. She couldn't say a word the whole time. He shift his grip on the steering wheel, glancing back at them in the mirror. She was quiet now, but still trembling, brown locks hanging limply about her face having escaped her low ponytail. Alasdair sat next to her, imposing even in the ridiculous amount of clothing he wore.

He pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine, twisting to look back at the Scot, his nervousness showing in his features. Alasdair stood and climbed out of the car, pulling the silent woman with him. Matthew followed suit, sliding out of the pleasant heat of the rental and into the cold winter air. He shivered a bit.

“Sorry about this, miss.” Alasdair muttered, stooping to lift her up bridal-style. She let out a little noise of surprise, but didn't move other than that. “You act like you're asleep, and don't move. Remember: I still have a gun.” she nodded, and rest her head against his shoulder, casting Matthew a betrayed glance before closing her eyes. “Lead the way.” he said to Matthew, and the shorter male nodded.

“Alright.” he mumbled, turning on his heel and entering the hotel. They made it without incident to his room, Matthew stopping and closing the door behind them. 

Alasdair walked into the room and sat her down on the bed gently, taking a seat beside her. “Here's the deal, miss: You're going to behave until tomorrow afternoon, when we let you go. We're not going to rape you or anything, that's not why we have you, but you're not going to be leaving my side until tomorrow afternoon.” she nodded, confused.

“I _am_ sorry,” Matthew persisted, and the woman scowled at him. He sighed.

“It's alright, Matthew.” Alasdair said, removing the cuff from his wrist. “You'd be pissed too, and you know it. She doesn't know any better.” he scoot along the bed, dragging her along and cuffing her wrists to the headboard. “We're going to have to sleep on the floor, Matthew.” He looked over at him from where he was removing a glove and a roll of duct tape from his pocket. “That alright?”

“Yeah, it's fine.” he assure, walking over to start setting up the extra blankets.

“Just hand me my blankets.” Alasdair was bent over the girl, taping the glove into her mouth to act as a gag so she wouldn't draw attention to the room. He pulled the blanket on the bed out from under her and lay it over her to shield her from the cold. He pat her cheek. “Sleep well.”

“Why?” Matthew asked. “I'm fine making the bed for you.”

“I'm sleeping in the bathroom.” he blinked.

“O-oh... Alright.” Matthew handed him the blankets. The Scotsman ruffled his hair as he passed.

“G'night, Matthew.” The bathroom door closed behind him and the bespectacled youth set about making his own bed, curling up in it once finished and closing his eyes. He needed the sleep.

Tomorrow, they were going to save Ivan.


	6. Jailbreak

He was woken up by a firm shake, blinking slowly. Alasdair hovered over him, smiling faintly. He sat back, and offered the sleepy male his hand. Matthew accept the help up, yawning and stretching. He looked over to the bed, and the woman on it. She was sound asleep, and glanced past her to the clock on the nightstand. It read 3:30. Alasdair shook his head.

“Let 'er sleep for a wee bit longer, lad.” he said. “She needs it.” Matthew nodded, rubbing his arms. Living long-term in a hotel room hadn't had much affect on it. He was a neat person by nature, and the only sign that someone had been there for an extended period of time, was the fact that he'd made use of the dresser drawers. Had, at least. All of the clothes he needed had been packed away the previous day, into a single suit case. His books and other trivial things would be left behind. All except a little stuffed polar bear.

“Do you think she'll try anything again?” he asked, voice low. He didn't want her to die because she was scared and made a silly mistake. That would be horrible. The Scotsman shrugged his shoulders.

“Ah hope nae.” he responded. Matthew note absently that he was speaking with an accent again, now that they knew the psychiatrist was sleeping and couldn't use that later to incriminate him. Alasdair shook his head, clapping Matthew on the shoulder. “Ye've been brave.” he said softly, and Matthew smiled sadly at him.

“I've had to be.” He said.

“T' save Ivan.”

“Yes.” Alasdair nodded, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

“Then let's get everythin' ready, aye? We've got a lot t' do.” Matthew nodded, turning to neatly fold his blankets, setting them on the chair. Alasdair retreat to the bathroom.

He changed, shivering as the slightly chilled air wash over his pale form. He dropped the clothes nonchalantly in the corner, his shoes as well. He was going to end up changing one last time that day, to rid himself of the clothes he would be committing the crime in. He reached for the folded shirt and pants sitting atop his suitcase and stopped, looking up to meet the eyes of his former psychiatrist.

They stay like that, one bound and gagged, the other stooped to reach for a shirt, silent. Matthew's chest constricted as she stare at him, gaze firm. He slowly picked up the shirt, pulling it over his head. When he regained his vision, she was still staring at him, not imploringly like she had been the day before, but just staring. Blank.

He couldn't get dressed fast enough, but no matter how many layers he put on, he felt naked below her gaze. He worried the drawstrings on his favorite hoodie, looking everywhere but the woman on the bed.

Alasdair emerged from the bathroom, clad in a military uniform, that of the SAS, but with a scarf and beanie on, obscuring his face. The older handed a handgun to the Canadian. Matthew took it hesitantly. The Scot had taught him to use it two days ago, after Alfred and Arthur had left, but taking it now, when he knew he was supposed to use it if the situation called for it, was taxing. He tucked it into his boot with shaking hands.

The woman's eyes never left Matthew throughout the brief transaction.

“You're doing fine.” He assured. “We won't even need that, most likely.” Matthew nod mutely. “Alright, miss.” he said, walking over to her and sitting on the edge of the bed. “I'm sorry about this.” he took the tape off of her face as gently as possible, the glove following. “There, better?” he leaned forward and removed the handcuffs. She sat up, rubbing circulation back into her wrists.

“You're going to kill me, aren't you?” she asked, though, it wasn't much of a question.

“Only if Ah 'ave to.”

“Alright.” She seemed content in the answer, swinging her legs off of the bed as she was coaxed, standing. Alasdair took hold of Matthew's suitcase in one hand, having her take the other arm.

“Are you ready?” Matthew nodded.

~::X::~

Matthew sat in the passenger's seat, eyes fixed outside the window as his psychiatrist drove towards the prison.

It was good that they had woken up early that morning, for the prison wasn't very close to civilization, for the public's safety. They'd been in the car for two hours already and were another half hour away from the prison. His nerves were already fried. He couldn't sit still, constantly worrying the hem of his favorite sweatshirt. His stomach rolled unsettlingly.

His psychiatrist had been silent the entire drive, staring straight ahead at the road, never once looking at him. Her face was a stone mask, her hands having stopped shaking. He fix his gaze out the window as the complex neared, gloomy and absolutely present.

They pull up to the gate and a man stooped, tapping on the window. She rolled it down, leaning back to look out at him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“My name is Tabatha Samuels, I'm a psychiatrist working with Braginski's latest victim: Matthew Williams.” she motioned towards him. “We're going to have Matthew speak to him before he's executed to help lessen his dependency on him.” Blinking, he stood back, and looked over to the other man guarding the tightly closed gate.

“Oi.” the guard returned his attention to the car. Alasdair had rolled his window down and was holding his informational papers out to him expectantly. Instead of taking it, the other guard walked over and took them. He was older, with gray peppering his temples and obviously more experienced. He glanced up at the Scott, surprise flashing across his features before he handed the papers back.

“Alright, hold on.” He turned and walked into the booth, picking up a phone and speaking into it rapidly, glancing back at them on occasion. Matthew refused to make eye contact with him, but instead twiddled his fingers like the demure mental patient he was supposed to be. “Alright,” he said, returning to the car. “You guys can go on through.” As he finished speaking, a loud buzzing sounded, and the gates shudder, then roll open slowly.

The drove through and Alasdair roll his window back up, as did Tabatha. It was still colder than all hell, and the entire area was blanketed in snow. Matthew, in turn, lay his cheek against the frigid window, sighing heavily and watching as his breath fogged up a small section of the glass. He felt sick. Even as the headlights from the rented car hit the snow before them and it glitter like so many diamonds in the dark of the early morning.

“We're almost there, lad, easy.” Alasdair's warm, wide palm was on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly, and Matthew look back to the Scot, smiling weakly. “Just a bit more to go, aye? Then you'll be out of here.” Matthew wet his lips, nodding weakly.

“I'm nervous.” he admit softly.

“Don't be nervous, lad, we'll get Ivan out.” he pat his shoulder and withdrew his glove-covered hand, sitting back in the seat. “Just watch.” Matthew nodded, turning his attention back to the drastically shortened distance between the prison and them.

~::X::~

After a thorough search for any concealed weapons, and Alasdair explaining that he was permitted to have his handgun on him at all times, and Matthew's was just a fake with blanks in it to make him feel safe, they were ushered from the miniature barracks and into a long hallway.

It was significantly colder in the hallway, but not freezing. Matthew's brow creased in worry as he note the steel doors on either side. These were the cells, then. There weren't all that many in this wing. That was probably because it was death row, though. Their footsteps echoed faintly in an eerie chorus as they near the end of the hall, Matthew's nerves acting up again as he fought to still his trembling hands.

At the end of the hallway was another steel door. This one was painted though, a dull eggshell white, and there wasn't a slit near the top like in the others. They were lead into a little white room, with a metal table in the center, bolted to the floor, with three chairs around it, two on the side closest, one on the other side of the table, also bolted to the floor. There were no windows, and only one exit. None of that matter, or even register to Matthew, though, as he stood, completely still, just inside the doorway and out of the way.

His eyes were focused entirely on Ivan.

He was in the chair farthest from them, hand shackled securely to the strong arms of the chair, and ankles to the legs. A look of surprise upon seeing Matthew touch his features for a millisecond, before that eerie, childish smile slid into place, and he contemplate them with a dull amusement, eyes only leaving Matthew once to lock with Alasdair's for a moment.

Matthew wanted to cry, and run to him. His entire body screamed to be near the convict, hands twitching slightly in his pockets to run through those pale locks again, to hold and be held. He wanted to curl up in his arms and sob, and tell him how badly he missed him, how much he loved him. How terrified he had been of Ivan dying. He sat down in the chair when it was offered.

Alasdair stood beside the one guard inside the room, there was another outside as well. He turn, and clap a hand on his shoulder, leaning in to talk in hushed tones to the man for a moment. The guard argue a bit, before relenting with a sigh.

“We're 'eadin' t' go an' talk to the warden, Matthew.” the SAS member said evenly, seeming to gauge his reaction. Matthew wet his lips and nod slowly. “There's still a guard outside, if ya need anythin' holler an' he'll be there.” another nod, and Alasdair accepted the out thrust walkie-talkie from the guard, setting it on the table. “We'll be back in about an hour, use this if ya need it.” and with that, he ushered the guard out, tossing a set of keys at the Canadian that he'd filched when speaking to the guard as he closed the door. Matthew barely had the reaction speed to catch them in shaky hands. A moment of tense silence filled the little room.

Matthew scrambled over the table in one quick movement, nearly falling rather than landing on his feet. He took Ivan's cheeks in his hands and kissed him desperately, tears burning at his eyes. He covered Ivan's face in kisses, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his jaw. Anything his trembling lips could reach, he peppered with kisses.

“Matvey,” his voice was breathless, and it made Matthew's heart shudder with joy. “Matvey, what are you doing here? Why are you here?” he seemed confused when Matthew pull back, eyes filled with tears. “Why is Allen here?”

“We came to get you out, Ivan.” he explained. “Ala-Allen doesn't want you to die. I don't want you to die.” He bury his face in the other's shoulder for a moment, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, before pulling back and reaching for the keys he'd shoved in his pocket. Matthew felt like he could die from joy at that moment. “I'll just-”

“Matvey.” Ivan's tone was grave, and the bespectacled male look up from the keys he was sorting through. The Russian's eyes were not on him, but looking past him, gaze hard. Matthew turned around.

Tabatha stood slowly, lifting the walkie-talkie he's forgotten in his haste to reach Ivan. Her eyes met his, and he was reminded of the night before when she'd been staring so intently at him. Her expression was the same. Empty. Void. Resigned.

“Don't do it.” he said simply, hand raising to reach into his pocket as a warning. His heart clutch and leap into his throat, making breathing hard. She wouldn't. He still had a gun. She knew it was real. He didn't want to shoot her. She shook her head slowly.

“I can't let you walk out of here with him.” her voice was even. “He's a murder, Matthew, this is unhealthy for you and everyone he'll kill when he's free.” Matthew's fingers closed around the gun, but he didn't pull it out of his hoodie. He didn't want to shoot. He was just a normal person. People like him didn't shoot women. She couldn't do this. They were so close. “He will kill more people. He's an animal, Matthew..” Matthew shook his head.

She raised the walkie talkie to her face, eyes on his.

He pulled the gun from his pocket, aim, squeezed the trigger.

And with the report of a pistol, he was a murder.

They stood in silence, Matthew holding his breath and staring down at her crumpled form. His hands started to shake. He'd just shot and killed someone. An unarmed woman. His therapist, who had been—misguidedly, yes-- trying to help him. His stomach churned, and his heart stopped. He was a murder, a killer. The gun clatter to the floor, and he covered his mouth for fear of getting sick. Matthew had just taken another human life. He slid down to sit on the floor trembling. He'd promised she could go home. He'd sworn she would be alright. Told her she would live, that he wasn't going to kill her. Why did she do that? All she had to do was sit for another hour and then they would have left her unharmed in the building.

“O-oh god...” his voice quavered and broke. He lean over, bracing on one arm, and was sick on the floor of the visiting room. He expected the guard to come bursting in at any moment, but the only sound was of Ivan calling his name.

“Matvey... Matvey, look at me.” He look up, and found Ivan's form blurred and cloudy. When had he started crying? “Matvey, please uncuff me.” his voice was soft, soothing, and the Canadian found himself compelled to listen. He crawl over to him, unable to find the strength to stand, and shakily undid his wrists. Ivan didn't move until both wrists were free, but as soon as they were, he scoop the younger into his arms, holding him close. “Oh, Matvey,” he cooed. “My poor, beautiful Matvey. You should have stayed home, my love, you should never have come. Matvey, I wanted you to move on.” The Canadian only shook his head, burying his face in Ivan's shoulder, sobbing.

“W-we have to go.” Matthew stutter through the sobs racking his frame. He couldn't break down. Ivan kissed him gently, reaching down to use the keys to free his shackled legs. He held Matthew in his arms, whispering small comforts and rubbing his back. Matthew pull away, and tug his arm towards the door. “I don't know how long we have, Ivan, we need to go.” The murder stoop to lift the gun as they walked towards the door, skirting the puke and the body of his psychiatrist.

“Let me go first.” Ivan said, opening the steel door carefully. There were no guards in the hall, but the prisoners were chattering to each other, speculating about what the shot had been. Ivan took Matthew's hand, and leading down the hall. As they near the end of the corridor, the door was opened, and Alasdair step into view. He was grinning widely.

“You fucker.” he chuckled fondly, meeting Ivan in an embrace. They clapped each other on the back, then Ivan return to Matthew's side, holding him close. “The security's bugged, so the cameras will not work.” his accent was gone again, probably so the prisoners couldn't place him later on. The Scot looked at Matthew with a question in his green eyes, then to Ivan. The later shook his head faintly. He glance around. To the prisoners' credit; they were standing back from the slits in their doors. Probably to avoid a smoking bun barrel. “C'mon.”

“Alright.” Alasdair turn on his heel, and pushed forward through the complex, booted footfalls echoing as they jogged. After what seemed like more halls than they'd come down initially, Alasdair slow to a walk, holding up his hand to warn them to stop. He turn to face them, glancing about once.

“This is right where yer gonna need te do some actin', Ivan.” he whispered. “Ah cannae been seen runnin' with the criminal, aye?” Ivan nodded. “When Ah go 'round the corner, sayin' the door's open an there ain't nobody about, ye need te clock me with that there gun, aye?” He touch the back of his head. “Make it good.” and with that, he turned and jogged around the corner, calling out to the guards. Ivan and Matthew crept behind.

“Oi, what is it?” a guard demanded. “We know the cameras are bugged, already, but the doors are fine, what're you yelling about?” Alasdair slow before him, making himself look a bit out of breath.

“Ye fuckers left the visitin' room unguarded! Ah went an checked an there ain't nobody about! Not Braginski or Matthew!” the guard paled considerably. “He's buggered off!” Alasdair scowled at the shell shocked guard. “Well? Get yer ass into gea-” a loud crack sounded out as Ivan struck him in the back of the head with the butt of the handgun. He crumpled. Matthew winced a bit at the noise. He didn't envy the headache Alasdair would have when he woke up, but he knew that Alasdair would be alright. The Russian shifted his grip on the handgun.

“Drop your weapon.” Ivan menaced. The guard pulled the simple handgun out of its holster, and lowered it to the ground, shaking. Ivan clubbed him in the temple with the weapon, knocking him out as well. “One witness is enough, da?” The older man chuckled. Matthew gave a weak smile, still sick to his stomach with nerves and guilt, and the Russian lead him on quickly.

Matthew had initially thought that they would use the car they'd driven up in. He should've known Ivan better. He wasn't one for being predictable. They bust into the garage, rather than out onto the long drive down to the gates, and Ivan dragged him towards an armored truck. The type of big metal, barred thing you'd see on television, and Matthew was shy of climbing into it.

It smelled like oil and sweat and leather and was nearly spotless. There wasn't anything out of place, but a coffee stain on the dash, and the rug below the driver's seat, was a bit rumpled. He close the door behind himself, shifting nervously and pulling his belt on. He felt entirely too small in the big vehicle. Ivan climbed in beside him, prisoner's bright orange outfit catching the door for a moment. He slam it shut behind him, and smile at Matthew.

“We have clothes for you in the car we came in, in the back seat.” he stated, looking at the orange jumper distastefully. They'd stick out like a sore thumb with Ivan wearing that. The Russian leaned over to open the glove department, snagging the keys from it, and pulling his own seat belt on.

“Change of plans, да?” he smiled, starting the engine. The truck growled to life below them, and Matthew wet his lips, looking away. “We'll have to stop and get some, or I hope the destination Alasdair put in my pocket when we hugged has some for me,” Matthew blinked. Sneaky Scotsman.

“Alright.” he sat back, wetting his lips and shifting in the seat. Ivan pull out of the garage by slamming his foot on the gas pedal and veering around the people standing in the way. They tore down the drive, and Matthew screw his eyes shut, gripping the bar located above him. They were going to wreck, he just knew it. There was no way they wouldn't. The truck slowed and stopped and the Canadian cracked open one eye. They were in front of the gate, and there was a gun pressed to his temple.

“Open the gate!” he bellowed. “Or I'll put a wind hole in his pretty little head! That would be quite a shame, да?” Matthew feigned being scared, tensing. After a moment of panicked conversing, the gate started to trundle open, taking entirely too long. Matthew was worried that they'd be caught while the damn thing roll slowly out of the way, but they were not. They drove through, and Ivan fired a shot at the younger guard's feet, laughing as he jumped out of the way.

~::X::~

The small plane was unmarked. There was no name on the side, no national flag, no nothing. Just an eggshell white plane on an abandoned runway. Matthew was feeling airsick already. The wind seemed to be rather harsh out on the runway, and Ivan was shivering slightly beside him. Matthew worry for his health.

“We should have-”

“Oi!” The Canadian jumped guiltily, clutching the bright orange sleeve of Ivan's jumper. A tall man walked forward, aviator goggles pushed up over his flyaway hair. He had a wad of clothing under one arm. “Big guy's Ivan, yeah?” he smile brilliantly at them, tossing the clothes at the Russian. Ivan caught them with a grateful smile. “Alas told me ye might not be dressed properly, fucker was right. As usual.” Matthew study him. There was something familiar about the man.

“Thank you,” Matthew called over the wind. “What's your name?” The man had turned and was leading them towards the plane, waving a hand over his shoulder for them to follow.

“Thought ya might wanna change in the plane and out of the wind.” Ivan chuckled beside him. “My name's Magnus, and you guys are Matthew and Ivan.” he had a faint accent, not as well hidden as Alasdair's could be, but not overly obvious. He'd learnt how to hide it well. Where had he seen him before?

“You are our ride then, да?” Magnus stopped to pull the door to the aircraft open, and the renegades climb inside. He stooped to climb in behind them, jerking the door shut and locking the wind out. 

It was a little warmer in the plane, due to the wind being blocked, but a very far cry from warm. Ivan set about changing immediately. The inside smelled metallic, like too much tin foil, and was small, with only four seats in sets of two, huddled close.

“Yeah, that's me: Illegal cabbie.” he laughed boisterously. “I take it we should leave as soon as we can, then? They've gotta be after you still.” Ivan nodded, pulling the jacket on over the rest of his thick clothing. It was large on even him, and Matthew was forced to wonder what behemoth had owned it beforehand.

“да, we should leave immediately.” Magnus nodded, and turned to swing into the cockpit.

“Buckle up, then!” Ivan and Matthew clamored into a pair of seats, clipping the harnesses on swiftly as the engine roar to life in the front of the plane and beside them. Matthew's grip on the Russian's hand would have been bruising if he had the strength. He was nervous flying on commercial airplanes, let alone this shabby-looking thing. It made his stomach flutter and his heart clench. “To Denmark!” he laughed, the sound cheering even in the blistering cold.

The takeoff was a blur of cold and noise and motion to the terrified Canadian, who steadfastly refused to open his eyes until they were leveled, and even then he refuse to look out the window, for fear of being sick.

After they'd flown a little while in the biting cold, Matthew began to shiver, and Ivan reach over to unbuckle his harness, despite the hysterical protests of his lover. He undid his own harness and unzipped his thick jacket, pulling the little blond into his lap. Matthew straddle him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and sliding his hands down the back of his shirt. Ivan swore, laughing quietly at his freezing hands as Matthew smile down at him and pressing him close to zip the jacket up around them both.

They kiss, and Matthew could feel his heart stutter with joy. Ivan would live. It would be hard at first, but they would make it.

“I love you, Matvey.” Hot, wet tears fell from Matthew's eyes, wetting Ivan's cheeks. Ivan's brows furrowed with concern, and he pull his arm out of the sleeve to wipe them away. “Dorogoy?”

“I love you too, Ivan.” He breathed, sobbing quietly, a radiant smile lighting his features.


	7. Epilogue

Allen,

We've arrived safely in Denmark, and bought a house far from any important cities or tourist towns. It is a quaint place, and not very eventful, but I will not complain because we are safe and out of sight. Matvey and I both are infinitely grateful to you, friend, and if you ever need help with anything, tell us and we will do anything in our power to help you as you helped us. I would ask you to visit, if I knew you could without it being troublesome. If you need somewhere to go though, our door is open to you.  
Maybe in the near future we can collaborate to meet somewhere in the middle? I would love to see you again because our last meeting was quite, well, unsavory. We can discuss that at later date, though.

Best regards,  
John.

~::X::~

Dear Al,

I'm sorry I did what I did without telling you, but I'm not going to regret it or want to take it back. I love you, Al, you're my brother, and I miss you, but I can't visit you. I know you'll try and keep me there. I'll send letters often, alright? Me and Ivan are fine, and I got us some chickens! They're harder to take care of than I thought, but it's fun anyways. I named them, too. I named them after our family and old pets! Remember our cats Ace and Maple? My favorite chickens have those names, now.  
You and Arthur are doing well, right? I hope so. I can't tell you where I am or anything, but I can tell you that I'm safe and happy. Be careful in New York, okay? I know you love it and you're really happy and into the whole cop thing, but I don't want you to get hurt. Watch your back, and don't try to play hero. That's a silly thing to ask you to do, huh? You've always liked being a hero. I miss that. I miss you. Well, I'm just rambling now, so I'll stop writing, yeah?

I love you,  
Mattie


End file.
